


Who Watches Over You

by slightlyjillian



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-05
Updated: 2010-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:59:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyjillian/pseuds/slightlyjillian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hot.  Trowa's searching out solutions.  Nichol wants to move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Watches Over You

**Author's Note:**

> a brief scene that I wrote several years ago, meant to be longer but stands alone alright.

The sweat started to pool into droplets between the grizzle of his unshaven jaw. Nichol rubbed his fingers over his cheek and then pressed the back of his hand across his chin. Glancing down he spotted a towel and, not particularly caring that it was covered in his infrequent attempt at dusting, wiped his whole face with furious scrubs with both hands. Snapping the towel back across the room into a pile of equally unwashed articles of clothing, he almost felt a breeze in the steamy stillness of his apartment.

Putting a fist onto either of his hips, he appraised the disastrous attempt at packing. He surmised that there was almost as much open floor space between the mountains of stacked boxes as there was visible skin on his face.

"Boxes already? I told you to wait for me."

Nichol had missed the sound of the door opening, but he did not misunderstand the monotone of the voice enunciating each syllable like the first drops of rain on a metal trashcan lid. Rain. It sounded refreshing.

Nichol turned toward the hallway entrance to find the rather pale countenance of Trowa Barton, in slacks, a dress shirt, and jacket, shouldering his luggage from a weekend trip overseas.

The duffel bag dropped from one slumped shoulder, a long drop from Trowa's height. The tan and blue bag made an alarming noise like breaking dishes when it hit the ground next to the small carry-on suitcase that Trowa had been towing on wheels behind him. The other man was rather inappropriately dressed for the dramatic heat that managed to build during the midday. A heat that refused to budge as the sun sank lower in the sky making most of the walls in the apartment orange.

"Welcome back." Nichol tried smiling, feeling his lips pulling back too sharply on the right side and resisting the urge to laugh in relief that Trowa was finally home. "You've probably noticed that the AC died last night. Amazingly enough, my internal temperature started to rise without anyone in particular around to aggravate me. So, I decided to bump our move-out date up a few weeks."

"What?" Trowa hadn't managed to close his mouth, so Nichol decided to help him. Stepping over, Nichol put one hand around the still cool neck and closed in with a kiss. Trowa indulged him for hardly an acceptable fraction of a second before pulling back and continuing in his bewildered questioning, "You're feverish, unwashed and unshaven? What happened to you while I was gone?"

"De-evolving, apparently," Nichol growled. As much as Trowa's customary insults amused him, the lack of air circulation, let alone the lack of air conditioning, was putting his temper on the nearly-non-existent switch.

"I hadn't even told you about the new place yet." Trowa pulled at his collar and a slight sheen of perspiration began to build along the edge of his jaw.

"I had faith in you." Nichol smiled more easily as they wove their way between the boxes and into the living room. "Otherwise we were simply going to crash at Quatre's or something."

"I'm sure he would have appreciated that." Trowa couldn't help but laugh at Nichol's jokes about Quatre, since most of his partner's original friends had thought Trowa'd been sweet on the blonde Gundam pilot.

"Ah, but imagine the hours of banter waiting for us when his wife returned home?" Nichol pulled a few boxes off the couch and immediately sat down with abandon, not caring if he stood up ever again especially if the sweat inside the back of his shirt fixed him to the cover of the seat.

"That would be interesting. You and I trying to live in the same house as Dorothy? We'd never have a moment's peace," Trowa winced. "I don't suppose that somewhere in this mess you've already packed away the fan that Catherine gave us?"

"Fan!" Nichol slapped his hands together, but didn't move. "I knew I kept you around for your brilliant ideas. Where did you put it?"

Trowa stood for a moment, lifting his chin and staring at the ceiling in thought. When he finally started to talk, Nichol could only faintly hear Trowa's voice.

"I think that fan is..." then he spoke too quickly to be heard. "Gone... as a re-gift. I'm going to take a cool shower, okay?"

And faster than Nichol could make the connections, Trowa had escaped.


End file.
